The conversation of mother and daughter was interrupted by a soft tap on the door. ‘Come!’ Agnes Crowther called with some irritation. She was at once on her guard when she saw that it was the maid. Amy had been with them a long time, but she was far too curious about matters that did not concern her. ‘Yes, what is it?’ There were other, more pressing matters on her mind than domestic trivialities.

‘It’s Cook, m’lady.’ Amy made an odd little curtsy, inclining her head to one side in the way she did when nervous. At this moment in time she did look exceedingly nervous and – because of the fact that she had come to the library earlier and overheard the riveting conversation that had taken place there – Amy was also acutely embarrassed. At the same time, she bubbled inwardly with excitement. Amy was very partial to a snippet of gossip, and here was a deal more than a snippet. What she had learned through a chink in the door was the most astonishing, the most awful and the most delicious revelations it had ever been her unpleasant lot to bear. She hadn’t told Cook yet, because the last time she imparted a bit of juicy gossip to Cook all she got for her trouble was a belt round the ear. But she would tell her soon, because if she didn’t, she would just burst.

‘Yes, yes… what about Cook?’

‘I’m to enquire, m’lady… whether dinner is to be served now. Or should we wait the master’s return?’

Agnes Crowther appeared to give the matter small thought, but then she instructed, ‘Tell Cook we will not be waiting the master’s return. She may serve dinner as usual.’

‘Very well, ma’am.’ With another curious little curtsy, Amy left the room.

The lamps were burning long into the evening at Breckleton House.

Upstairs in the drawing-room, Agnes Crowther sat in the deep comfortable armchair by the window, a look of disbelief and shock in her eyes as she gazed out to the two figures bathed in moonlight and discreetly positioned by the big gates. Earlier there had been only one man on duty, but a second officer had remained behind after yet another visit by the authorities. During this particular visit it had been revealed to Agnes Crowther that ‘a certain man who had delivered a blackmail threat to the Tanner home’ had been taken into custody. After lengthy interrogation he had reluctantly put forward a statement that incriminated Justice Crowther, and which also appeared to substantiate certain earlier allegations made by a Mrs Tilly Watson and her son, Joe. The charges were serious: the Justice was urgently wanted for questioning.

Cook sat in the upright, uncomfortable standchair, her chubby arms stretched out across the table, and a letter clutched tightly in her fist; a very old and condemning letter, written by a woman hanged many years before.

Cook had been stunned by the news regarding her employer, most of which had reached her ears via the parlour maid. Although it was all a most unexpected and shocking revelation, Cook was not altogether surprised by it. There was no doubt whatsoever in her mind that Justice Crowther was a bad, bad man; a tyrant of the worst order, if this letter were anything to go by. A heartless fiend who did not stop even at murder!